Snow

I love winter. But it is never easy.

Last December, what little energy I had for the holidays kept skipping, like a scratched vinyl recording of ‘What Child Is This?” My own childhood, lost to the lambs, hummed at me from dreams so dark that work days made my brain hurt. I could not corral my thoughts into linear arrangements, nor even mystical chants. I could not concentrate on any task for longer than 10 minutes. I was sidelined and scared.

Friends, healers and a therapist recommended meditation. I was given the name of a few ADD medications. I met with a psychiatrist. I filled a prescription. I stopped taking the pills after five days. Winter darkened. I felt hopeless and confused.

One morning I sat down with my eyes closed, my legs crossed, and my hands on my knees. I focused on my breath and tried to make myself stop thinking. But the thoughts kept coming. I could not turn off the volume. It grew loud and my thoughts were jumbled and trite.

These early attempts at meditation, five minutes here, ten minutes there, were an offering to my aching head and heart. I kept up the practice for two weeks, then stopped for no apparent reason other than a lack of desire to commit, to discipline myself, to see the value in sitting still.

I move. I run, dance, bike, ski, travel. I unwind when my body is in motion. I grow giddy watching quiet snow fall past orange street light glow, remembering the glorious moments I have schussed down mountains blanketed in bottomless powder snow. The rush of memory holds me in temporary joy.

I felt that rush pulsate through me at Shambhala Mountain Center on our first morning together. The sky promised grey. I walked to my car after breakfast to retrieve my fuzzy winter boots. I was feeling unusually calm. Even satisfied. My coursemates were wonderful people. I got along with them well and felt safe. I retrieved my boots from the black oblong storage box atop my Subaru, leaned over to put them on, and stood to see a singular snowflake fall out of the sky and onto my nose.

‘SNOW!’ my heart sang. Snow from the heavens. Snow for writing. Snow for being in the mountains. Snow for my first retreat, ever. Snow for meditation. Snow for friendship. Snow for sipping tea. Snow for Buddha. Snow for sleep. Snow for the beautiful sake of snow.

My spirit soared. No one would understand my glee, and it was OK. I could do nothing but walk among flakes, taste their wet coldness on my tongue and shake their mass from my hat and coat before entering the Stupa, so overwhelmed by perfection, it was all I could do to sit still, receive, and offer.

The snow fell steady throughout the morning. I learned that it is impossible to not think. That’s what we do. I learned it is possible to attune my mind to the journey of my breath. To notice that mysterious place where inhale transitions to exhale, where my body, on its own accord, from the energy of its all-knowing grace, sustains me with such involuntary perfection that I can only wonder at the mystery and be grateful for such simple magic. From breath to breath. Moment to moment. I can slow down my thoughts. I can be still.

This winter, I am committed to meditation, to turning this practice into a discipline that is as essential as food. I feel the familiar darkness casting long shadows on the early days of December. Once again, I cannot concentrate at work. I ache to be at home, nose in a book, detached from this year winding down around me.

I sit and listen. Notice the sadness and honor its presence. Sorrow is winter’s song. A low, purring ballad of unmet desire. Today, it's a memory of loss that is recovered with the breath and returned unto me with the falling, silent snow.